


Hide in the Half Light

by vaughnicus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anon Prompt, Arranged Marriage, Asexual Character, Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, ace!Enjolras, understanding grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:31:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaughnicus/pseuds/vaughnicus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon AU wherein some of the Amis survive the Barricade.</p><p>A month after the failure of the Barricade, Enjolras' parents force an arranged marriage. They have a girl and a plan and no one can seem to fight it. But there are two problems with this: a) Enjolras is asexual, and b) after the 'Permets tu?' moment, Enjolras and Grantaire have fallen in love.</p><p>(taken from an anon prompt on tumblr.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hide in the Half Light

* * *

 

_“Do you permit it?”_

_An answer in an outstretched hand, given in the moments before assured death… Soldiers…. Fear… Blood… Silence._

 

Enjolras wakes with a great gasp, thrashing under his tangled sheets. They are weighted down; trapping him, and at first he doesn’t know why and his heart beats even more quickly, thinking in his dream-driven state of mind that they’ve grown life and maleficence and are sure to smother him.

Then there’s a voice in his ear and a heat at his side and he realizes there’s a person beside him. The sheets are caught beneath their bulk.

“It’s all right, it’s okay now, please calm down. You’re safe.”

A quiet voice – close enough to offer comfort but far enough away to offer breathing space. It’s achingly familiar, and Enjolras struggles through his mental catalogue to remember the source while forcing his breathing back to its normal pattern.

“… Enjolras?”

And in a flash – _do you permit it?_ – the words, the tone, the voice is recognized and Enjolras is turning and grasping; pulling Grantaire into himself by the material of his sleep shirt. The other man falls into him with a surprised grunt, but his arms raise of their own accord and wrap around Enjolras’ torso, holding tightly.

“Are you all right?”

“I….” The blonde clears his throat, shaking off the vestiges of the nightmare and pulling away from Grantaire. “Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you’d wish to discuss it with me,” Grantaire says, throwing off their sheets and planting his feet on the cold floor.

“There is nothing new to discuss. We’ve been through a terrible event and my mental faculties have been compromised by it. Recurring night terrors are a common symptom of trauma.”

“I could help,” Grantaire insists, padding over to the single window placed in a wall of their small attic and pulling the material in front of it halfway back.

Enjolras stands, eyes weary but tender as he approaches Grantaire and sets a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done all you can.”

It’s quite true.

  
_“Do you permit it?”_

_Enjolras does. He holds out his hand and Grantaire takes it. Their eyes meet and worlds pass in that glance that lasts much longer than it should. Grantaire joins his Apollo in the corner, and they face the guns together._

_Only the shots do not come. The soldiers stand down at their commander’s cry, who orders them to be put under arrest. The two go silently and proudly, heads high and outwardly serene though both are inwardly anything but. Enjolras is confused, caught between relief, rage, and pride. And wariness, for he knows not what they are being carted off to – it may only be another death, infinitely more shameful than this one would have been._

_Grantaire feels only relief._

_But it is not for himself._

 

“I must tell you something.”

They are out together, in an establishment far from all they once knew. Grantaire is slouched over a nearly-empty cup of wine, peering after Jehan as he goes to get more. But once Enjolras speaks, his voice low and somber, Jehan is all but invisible.

“Tell it, then.”

Enjolras pushes at his cup (holding only water), eyes cast downward, uncharacteristically withdrawn. (Of course, since the Barricade nothing is in character anymore simply because he has no character to be in. So much life has been siphoned from him by not only their rebellion’s failure but the death of so many friends.)

“I…” He stops; frowns almost violently. “My _family_. My family wishes for me to… to enter into an arranged marriage.”

The air is drawn out of Grantaire’s lungs – out of the entire building, it seems. A pressure builds in his chest and throat, threatening to break, but he only takes another drink and lets his vision grow fuzzy at the edges.

“I suppose it was bound to happen.”

“I did not expect it so soon.” Enjolras’ posture is declining, a sign of his exhaustion (both mental and physical). “They seem to care only about the impending loss of the family money if I don’t marry and have – have apparently found an eligible… match.”

Grantaire looks up at that, façade of resignation flying out the window at the nigh-tangible indicator that _this can’t last forever_. “They’ve found someone already?”

Enjolras nods, but before anymore can be said, Jehan is rejoining them, setting another cup in front of Grantaire and keeping the other he’d retrieved in hand as he sits. The poet leans back in his seat, gaze vacant as it reaches through the front window. Grantaire swallows down the familiar ache at the muffled feel of defeat around the red-haired man. He bites his lip and sighs in relief as Courfeyrac enters the café and zeroes in on Jehan, and the poet’s eyes regain the faintest promise of life.

Courfeyrac sits down close to Jehan and hooks their arms together.

“Boys,” he greets, trying for his easy smile and failing.

“Courf,” Grantaire returns, but even he can tell it sounds strangled. Enjolras makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat before standing, setting his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“I apologize. It is good to see you, Courfeyrac, and I hope we can return later, but I’m afraid at the moment Grantaire and I have pressing matters to attend to.”

Jehan frowns, eyes dark and confused. “But we were just-“

“I’m sorry.”

Wordlessly, Grantaire picks himself up from his chair and throws a half-smile their way, following Enjolras out of the café towards the flat they’ve rented as ‘business partners.’

_It is dark in their cell, and silent. The reality of the deaths they’ve witnessed (or rather, Enjolras has witnessed and Grantaire has assumed) stay their tongues and hopelessness hangs like mist between them. Enjolras lays himself on the bare floor (nothing has been provided for them, not even a hole for their waste) and does not move for hours, limbs limp and eyes half-open. Grantaire sits against the wall across from him and watches with flatly terrified eyes._

_It is not until the second day of their capture, when there has been no word from the guards or any outside source, that Grantaire stirs and stands. His eyes are bright, feverish and devastated, and he never takes his eyes off of Enjolras as he begins to weep._

_“You survived. Apollo, you survived. You can continue your cause if you must, if that’s what it takes. You survived but you act as though you haven’t. Your chest hardly twitches with intake of air. I beg of you, move. Show me your flawless heart still beats. Show me you haven’t been defeated._

_“Apollo, my one belief; my reason for breathing. You cannot be broken. Prove all the forces of this damned shit-filled universe wrong. There is an ideal to be reached; there are incorruptibles to be defended. See? See? You’ve healed the cynic. I believe. I believe in you._

_“You can do anything. You can tear down the fucking monarchy but you have to move.”_

_Grantaire speaks until his throat gives out and then he shouts in painful, desperate whispers, and still Enjolras shows no sign of life but for the increasingly slight exhalations that blow faintly from his split lips._

_A tin of water is shoved through the bars on the third day and Grantaire sticks his tongue in before forcing the rest on Enjolras. The blonde is unresponsive, neither resisting nor swallowing, and ten minutes in Grantaire has a hand over his nose, forcing him to swallow._

_It is only then that Enjolras reacts, sitting and knocking the bowl away, shoving violently at Grantaire. The former artist hits the opposite wall and takes hardly a moment to straighten himself before he’s staring intently at Enjolras._

_For a few long breaths, all the revolutionary does is glare. And it is a harsh, cutting look, one meant to hurt. But Grantaire’s gaze is only patient, his edges softened to cotton in this small space with only the object of his veneration and no absinthe to dull his feelings._

_Enjolras does not move again as the shadows wrought by the single window high above grow, and Grantaire fears another slip into subconsciousness. But then as the darkness deepens, a single, quiet tear forces itself into existence and down the captured man’s dusty, stubbled cheek. Grantaire’s eyes widen, for of all the reactions he was expecting (anger, passion, destructiveness, resolve), this is not one he had considered._

_It is moments after the first tear that Enjolras falls into Grantaire’s chest and begins sobbing in earnest. The cynic can do nothing but force his astounded arms around his Apollo’s trembling shoulders and pet that shining blonde hair, whispering pacifying untruths and ignoring his own dampening face._

 

“Can you fight it?

“My family is insistent. I am an only child; if they had a daughter I may have been able to convince them she could marry into wealth in my stead, but even then they need a male heir for our fortune and to carry on the family name. They have a woman lined up… there is nothing to be done.”

Grantaire leans into Enjolras where they are sitting against the wall, dropping his face to the ground so as to hide the blatant distraught displayed there.

“We could run.”

“And abandon the few friends we have left?”

“They could come with us.”

Enjolras strokes along Grantaire’s bicep. “They would not. And I cannot leave them, not after I caused the death of everyone else they hold dear.”

“Stop. Stop saying that.”

“I speak only truth, Grantaire. You know that.”

“I do not. I will never stop contradicting you. Not until you believe me.”

“It is your purpose in life, after all. To contradict me.”

“Perhaps. And perhaps I am mostly wrong. But not this time, Enjolras. This one time, you must believe I am the one who is right.”

_“Why did you stay?”_

_It is dark. Enjolras has not moved from Grantaire’s arms, though his sobbing abated much earlier._

_“What?” The painter has not slept since the barricade, and the revolutionary since before then, though the latter seems still to have his faculties now more intact._

_“At the – the barricade. At the end, when you… woke. And saw the soldiers facing me down. You could have left. Or stayed; they wouldn’t have bothered you. You could have saved your life – yet you chose to stand with me; to die. Why? Why would you do that?”_

_“Oh, Apollo,” he sighs, head against the wall, “are you really so blind? So caught up in your nationalistic fervor that you cannot recognize love for what it is?”_

_“Love?”_

_And the word is small, the question such a very far cry from the passionate pleas and encouragements of the week before. He sounds too close to meek for Grantaire’s comfort._

_“Yes, love. It’s always been because of that. You know well I am a nonbeliever in most everything. Everything but you.”_

 

The woman they’ve found is quite lovely from both an objective and a more empathetic standpoint, graceful in her appearance and movements and humble at heart. Enjolras would no doubt be eager to cultivate a friendly relationship in any other circumstance but this. The first time he meets her it is a mere two days after his family has informed him of their decision. She is waiting in his rooms when he returns there after a day at the café, standing straight but not overly proud between his parents.

“Enjolras,” says his mother with a clearly forced expression of warmth. “This is Annabeth. She is to be your betrothed.”

Taken aback, Enjolras cannot formulate an answer. His parents’ expressions turn sour quickly, and his father steps forward after an uncomfortably silent moment, eyes hard.

“We’ve brought her here so you two can get to know each other. Your mother and I have previous appointments – we assumed you’d be able to get along.”

With that, he takes his wife’s arm and leaves with only a parting glance thrown Enjolras’ way in warning.

Annabeth steps lightly forward once they are gone, extending a slim hand.

“Enjolras,” she greets with a low voice. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He grips her hand for only a short time and does not return the pleasantry, choosing instead to move past her to sit himself on a chair. Her brow furrows only briefly before she sits across from him, drumming up a thin smile.

“So. Your parents tell me you’re in politics?”

The innocent attempt at conversation enrages him. Not because of who has spoken but because of what she’s said and the painful, blatant lies his parents have fed her. He takes a breath, knowing it is not Annabeth’s fault she is so ignorant and not wishing to harm her for what his family has done.

“In a way. I organized the uprising of a month ago.”

Her eyes grow wide, and he expects her to gather herself up and leave. He does not know whether to be joyful or frustrated when she instead stays, leaning forwards with a new glint in her eyes.

“The Student Rebellion? With the barricade? That was you?”

“Yes.” His answer is terse.

“But…” She sits back, pale face tense with pensiveness. “I thought no one survived that.”

Enjolras feels his chest twist violently. He sits back, hoping his face displays far less than what he’s feeling.

“We have kept ourselves well-hidden, for obvious reasons. I am able to go into public now only because my parents paid off a renowned psychiatrist to announce that at the time of the rebellion I was in an unstable state of mind and have since sworn loyalty to the king.”

“That’s not true, though.” It isn’t a question.

“It is undoubtedly one of the worst fallacies that has ever been upheld by this household… and it stands atop a pile much larger than I suspect even I know.”

Annabeth frowns, her thin brow creasing. “I am so very sorry. For… for all your losses. And for this life that you clearly do not want.”

At that, Enjolras looks up at her, one brow poised high in a question. She dips her head, eyes tender.

“I am said to be more observant than most, though I stay by my claim to be only caring, and it is that rather than any detective feats that sets me apart from our society. It is very clear to me that you desire neither the name of your family nor the girl before you.” She states the facts plainly, unhurt and verging on amused. “I take no offense at your disinterest – I would not generally wish to marry one who does not wish to marry me, and it is better if we lay out our uncertainties at the forefront of whatever decision we are to make. However,” and here she pauses, keen eyes surveying a rather plainly shocked Enjolras. “We may be able to work this… arrangement to our benefit.”

Enjolras straightens in his chair, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I’m afraid I must apologize, Annabeth. I judged you incorrectly at first glance and my dismissal of you was undignified and unjustified. You are clearly a fine, clever woman, and I would be honored to hear what you have to say.”

She quirks a smile. “It is evident that our families are quite set on our bonding together in marriage. Removing ourselves from this inevitability would be not only messy and difficult, but foolish. Seeing as how we are both independent, bright, and scheming people, letting this marriage run its course is the best course of action for us both.”

“And how is that?” Questions Enjolras, unease tugging at his heart at the frank speak of marriage despite her obvious alternative plans.

“Your heart belongs to another. Be that another woman or the fair nation herself I know not yet, but it will never belong to me. And mine will not belong to you. But if we enter into this marriage with the shared knowledge that it is only a front, we will be free to truly give our hearts to whomever we were meant to with the comfort of an irrefutable defense should anyone question us. This way we keep our fortune and families at bay for the rest of their lives.”

Stunned but feeling the beginnings of a stirring in his chest that have not been there for a very long time, Enjolras starts to smile.

“He is a lucky man who holds your heart.” And then he hesitates, thumb running over the arm of his chair. “But if we are to do this, I am to assume we are to be nothing but frank and honest with each other. This is to be a marriage of friends, is it not?”

“’Tis,” Annabeth answers, head cocked curiously. “What brings you pause?”

“You are right in saying that my heart belongs to another,” he begins, choosing his words carefully and monitoring her face. “I can only hope it will not drive you away when I confess that the person to whom it belongs is another man.”

To her credit, the most reaction Annabeth gives is a lifting of the eyebrows. “Who am I to judge who you are destined for? Love is what it is, despite the physical limitations of the bodies it brings together. I will freely confess to my own experimentation with the fairer sex.”

They share a moment of silence before she breaks into bright laughter and he allows a real smile to grace his features. She quiets herself and sighs, her bright green eyes drilling into his own.

“I do believe I could love you, in some other lifetime.”

“And I you. But in this one, our dear friendship will suffice. Oh, Annabeth, I could not have asked for a blessing higher than you. My happiness is boundless. I take no shame in saying I was deeply concerned over this whole affair and indeed entertained thoughts of disappearing.”

She takes his hand, expression understanding. “I did the same. It is clear to me that God has seen our suffering and thought it enough. He has rewarded us with each other and the chance at better lives. You are a brave man, Enjolras, and deserving of a second chance.” 

Unbidden tears fill his eyes, and Enjolras brings her hand to his lips to press a gentle kiss against her knuckles.

“I will enjoy learning more about you, Annabeth, for I am certain that you deserve one just as well.”

_It is a strange feeling, realizing that out of everything you’ve stood for and all the good you thought you’ve done, there’s a vital concept that has forever been out of your blind grasp. But once everything you’ve fought against has defeated you and there is nothing left but that one thing, all you’ve missed becomes apparent._

_“Why me?”_

_“You are Apollo. You are the sun. You are ideal, and beautiful, and so painfully innocent, though I suspect that last feature has been tarnished in recent days, and for that I am sorry.”_

_“You warned me.”_

_“I did not want to see you fail.”_

_“But you knew I would.”_

_Grantaire is silent, arm draped across his knees and head tilted back against the wall. Enjolras is sitting across from him, legs crossed, his gaze (dulled but regaining some of its brightness – just some) pinned on his companion._

_When the former artist still says nothing after an extended period of quiet, Enjolras frowns, shifting._

_“You were the only one out of all of us with any sense. You were right, Grantaire.”_

_“Don’t.” It is a broken whisper, fallen from lips dry and slack, no longer twisted in cynicism, too tired to mock. “Please don’t.”_

_“Don’t what?” Enjolras spits. “Speak the truth? That’s all you ever wanted before. What’s changed, Grantaire? Has your mind been shifted with the absence of alcohol? Have you taken back your disbelief after seeing my tears? It couldn’t be merely because of the deaths of a few simple minded revolutionaries - those same people you mocked incessantly day after day. Those same students you fought against and denounced every time their beliefs caught flame. You couldn’t have been affected by them passing along. You could hardly call them acquaintances, let alone friends.”_

_Grantaire throws down his arm, red-rimmed eyes snapping towards Enjolras in a fiery glare._

_“Degrade me. Rage at me. Assault me if you must but don’t you dare tell me I didn’t care for those who died at the barricade. Of course I cared for them, you ignorant bastard. I stayed for you, yes, but in that time you were blind to my every move they took me in and treated me as a human. You were the sun I was too fearful to approach with sincerity, but they gave me companionship and shade. You have been hurt, Enjolras; I know that. But don’t think you are the only one who feels pain for those we lost.”_

_Enjolras holds his stare a moment more before folding into himself. “I know. Were that I was. I do not wish this pain on you, Grantaire – not a moment of it.”_

_“And yet I have it.”_

_“I am sorry.”_

_“You hold no fault.”_

_At that, Enjolras’ head jerks up. “Of course I do.”_

_“Oh, God, Apollo, you can’t possibly be putting – “_

_“I am. How could I not? You said yourself, Grantaire – “_

_“I never said you would ever be completely to blame. Those men followed you of their own free will. They were always prepared to die – for the cause, not for you.”_

_“But I was their leader. I convinced them to fight. I convinced them to die.”_

_“You did no such thing. Your words may be golden, Apollo, but they are not hypnotic. They already believed in everything you were saying; your speeches and belief only allowed them to die happily and pridefully rather than in fear.”_

_Enjolras shook his head but threw no rebuttal. He closed his eyes and threaded both hands into his hair. When he finally spoke, it was with a quiet, defeated voice._

_“Don’t call me that.”_

_“What?”_

_“Apollo. Don’t call me that.”_

 

Grantaire is asleep in their loft, empty wine bottle beside him on the desk he’s fallen over, when Enjolras enters. He carries with him a bright air, and for the first time in a very long time the beginnings of a smile are lightening his features. His gaze immediately finds his partner and the mood around him dampens slightly, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows as he approaches.

Grantaire has fallen into slumber with the tear tracks still on his face.

Enjolras slips a hand into the tumbling curls sprawled across the desk, face softening into something tender.

“Grantaire,” he calls softly, tightening his hold. “R, I come with joyful news. Wake up.”

It is then that he sees the sketchbook.

Since the failure of the rebellion Grantaire has done little but sit and drink. In actuality not much has changed with him since before the Fall, though Enjolras has refrained from commenting on his static behavior. He is in fact grateful the cynic hasn’t allowed himself to fall into unresponsiveness or death due to irredeemably excessive intake, and knows for a fact he has played no small part in that mild success.

But not once has he spied his beloved with a brush or pen, despite his subtle suggestions it would be beneficial for them both. Enjolras had not seen Grantaire’s art during or before the rebellion, and he has seen next to nothing now, only glimpses of old sketches as they are carried to the waste.

Carefully, unwilling now to jostle Grantaire in the face of this chance, Enjolras picks up the thick, battered book. He trails a reverent hand down the cover before cracking it open to the first page.

There in the beginning is a drawing that must be very old, perhaps from a time in Grantaire’s life without Enjolras and the rebellion; perhaps even without all the acquired bitterness he’d come into before Les Amis.

It is a saint, intricately detailed and heavenly. White robes drape a conservative yet Grecian figure, and softly curled hair frames a face that is ethereal in its delicacy. The figure is distinct but also backlit, and the faintest outline of wings is visible in the glow.

The portrait strikes Enjolras breathless, as does the fact that Grantaire can create such a thing with only paper and pencil. He flips to the next page quickly and is almost disappointed when the spread reveals only a smattering of sketches. But even these are exquisite – or at least, many of them are. As Enjolras peruses further, the smaller, meandering works seem to lose their focus, becoming shaky and incomplete. Enjolras realizes with a pang that these must be from the time when Grantaire was falling into drunkenness. Enjolras still doesn’t know what exactly caused it, other than some event or amalgamation of them that chipped away at his former idealism before shattering it completely.

He skims through the next pages, passing over the increasingly inebriated doodles until stopping at the next full drawing. It is done all in charcoal; in great swaths of black and thick, rough lines. The scene it depicts causes Enjolras to lower the book, looking away with a pained expression. A breathlessness brought on by secondhand suffering locks his throat up and he struggles with the desire to toss the artwork away from him.

It is of Grantaire. Or rather, Grantaire as he saw himself whenever this was made, ugly and broken and hardly human, chained to the ground and lying there unflinching as two shadowy figures brutally flog him.

Swallowing down a wounded noise, Enjolras almost tears the page in his hurry to clear it from his vision, and then freezes again for an entirely different reason.

This page is of him. It is perhaps from the first time Grantaire had seen Enjolras, and he has drawn him at the Musain, standing on a chair with his fist lifted and light shining in from the side, catching on his brow, jaw, and curls. He looks rapturous and Godlike.

If this is how Grantaire has always seen him, it is no wonder he fell in love.

“Find anything to your liking?”

Grantaire’s voice startles him, and Enjolras nearly drops the sketchbook. But he recovers in time to save it and sets it, still open, on the desk.

“I… Grantaire, why haven’t you shown me these before? Your work… it’s magnificent.”

“These are but trifles. It is true I have wielded the brush and pen with some skill in the past, but this book is no canvas and I am no artist.”

“I must beg to differ. Set these in oil and you could be revered forever.”

Grantaire scoffs, snapping the sketchbook closed and shoving it away. “Do not mock me, Apollo.” He stands and turns to their bed, pulling off his shirt.

“I do not…” Enjolras sighs, shaking his head and filing the debate away for a time when he has less pressing news. “Listen, Grantaire. I am sorry I’ve returned so late, but I"ve come in gladness. I've met with Annabeth-"

“Oh, good, first names already. How lovely for you two.”

“Grantaire, please, if you would just listen to me-“

The artist throws himself onto their bed, facing the wall. “You’ll excuse me for not wanting to hear about all your exploits with your soon-to-be wife. Might we please have one last night together and perhaps pretend no one else exists? At least grant me that, Enjolras.”

Enjolras strides to the bed, putting a firm hand to Grantaire’s shoulder and pulling so they’re facing each other.

“If you would let me speak, you would know we have the chance for nearly every night together until we part in death.”

“Not even death can keep Apollo,” Grantaire murmurs automatically, but his eyes are wide as he draws them to Enjolras.

“As I said, I met with Annabeth today, and she is both respectable and discerning.” Grantaire looks unhappy, but Enjolras takes his hand and carries on. “She supports our causes and is willing to work together to make this arranged marriage end with both of our best interests. It was stated implicitly between us that neither of our hearts were available. She does not want to marry me for love. However, she believes that by carrying on with the fiction of a relationship, we will be free to do as we please with those we have true feelings for.”

Grantaire just looks at him for a moment, not registering what’s been said, and then his eyes widen and grow bright.

“You mean…?”

“We’re safe, Grantaire. We’re safe.”

Enjolras finds himself suddenly with an armful of overwhelmed artist. He tightens his hold around him, smiling tenderly into the dark hair at his chin.

“We’re finally safe.”

 

_“You should not love me.”_

_Grantaire starts from his doze against the cell wall, blinking heavily. “Sorry?”_

_“You should not love me. I don’t deserve it.”_

_“Only because you’re too good for it.”_

_Enjolras glares, but the fire behind it is more pain than anger. “No. I should have no one’s love. I am a murderer and a liar and I… I cannot return what you desire.”_

_“You aren’t. And I never expected your affection in return. You are the idealist and I am the cynic… your disdain was enough. A thousand of me would not equal you, Apollo, and that is one of the indisputable facts of our lives.”_

_Enjolras straightens angrily, pulling closer to Grantaire. “You speak untrue. You are a good man, Grantaire, and recently a better one than me. You have cared for me despite my failure, and I have done nothing to show gratitude for it.”_

_“I would not be able to see your suffer if I could do something for it. That does not make me good – it makes me selfish.”_

_“Grantaire… you think so little of yourself.” He moves closer, reaching out a hesitant hand to set on the other man’s arm. “You are worth much more than you think.”_

_“To who?” It is said rhetorically; sardonically and in expectation of no answer. But Enjolras tightens his hold, bringing Grantaire’s gaze to his own._

_“To me.”_

_They are silent for a moment, Grantaire’s throat working as he stares at Enjolras. Finally, he opens his mouth, sounding strained._

_"But why?"_

_Enjolras briefly closes his eyes and then opens them again, blue seeming to shine brighter than ever from them._

_“Are you so caught up in your cynicism that you cannot recognize love for what it is?”_

_Grantaire’s jaw goes slack. “No,” he breathes. “You… Your mind has been addled by captivity.”_

_“Do not tell me what I think, Grantaire. You know how foolish that is.”_

_“You cannot love me.”_

_“And you should not love me. What a pair we make.”_

_They sit for a moment, too close but not nearly close enough, their only real point of contact Enjolras' hand on Grantaire's arm. And soon he draws even that away, looking unsure._

_"There... is something you must know."_

_"You've gone mad?"_

_Enjolras tries to glare but ends up with a half-amused pursing of his lips. "Not that I'm aware of. No, listen... What I said. About not being able to return what you desire... I was not speaking of emotional affection. I... I believe I love you, Grantaire. But... I have never been a man to be drawn towards the most... carnal of displays, and I do not believe that can ever change."_

_Grantaire only stares at him for a moment with bright eyes. "Is that meant to dissuade me?" he finally asks, as though unaware of Enjolras' inner tension._

_"I thought you should know. You are... you are not the same."_

_"No," Grantaire allows. "But to have you in any form... it is more than I ever would have imagined. I love you, Enjolras. I have for some time. If a relationship with you is dependant on limiting my physical desires, I may as well have no body."_

_"I would not wish that," Enjolras all but whispers, the phantom of a smile threatening to crack his expression._

_He pulls closer to Grantaire, aligning their bodies so they are pressed together at the shoulder, hip, and thigh. Tentatively, he reaches between them and laces their fingers together. Their breaths hitch as one._

_"This is okay?" Grantaire questions, voice barely there, all but stolen in the breathless happiness that has accosted him._

_"More than," Enjolras replies, and though they are still in captivity, his heart has never felt lighter._

_The revolution failed._

_But he survived, and he survived with the person he's only just accepting as most important to him. And if they survived, perhaps others did. Perhaps they can restart, somehow. And if they do, they will succeed, because now he has the thing he did not before._

_Now he has something to fight for._

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, a few things: 
> 
> Yes, Enjolras had a reason to fight before Grantaire - of course he did. But now he's realized what a difference loving someone can make, and he has a *specific person* to fight with and stay alive for. That's the difference. 
> 
> The title is taken from House of Heroes' song 'Angels of Night.' Because Enjolras & Grantaire have angels praying for them and their beautifully tragic lives. Plus, they're kind of hiding in the half-light... It fits. Anyways, listen to the song, it's absolutely gorgeous. 
> 
> Also... I thought about adding more to this. Them meeting up w/ Courf and Jehan; Enjolras getting Grantaire out of prison; all that. But it feels right where it is. If I get any requests, I might post headcanons on tumblr or write a couple oneshots explaining things. 
> 
> This entire idea came from a genius anon who messaged me on tumblr. Thank you for the prompt, my dear, and I hope you find this. 
> 
> If any of you would like to suggest an idea or simply chat, you can find me here ---> jehansmuse.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you all!


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